Magic is a Fickle Thing
by Scorch The Earth
Summary: Stephen Strange had always believed he knew everything there was to know about the human body. That was, until he met Tony Stark. An accidental magic fic! Because I honestly just needed an excuse for Wong to hand Stephen a book titled, "What's Happening to My Body?: A Guide Through Puberty For Adolescent Sorcerers.


Hi guys! I'm so excited to release my debut in the Ironstrange ship! This is meant to be a relatively short fic, at the most ending around 7 to 10 chapters. The idea wouldn't leave me despite being short, and I'm hoping I'll be able to keep myself to that length instead of making it unnecessarily long.  
Be warned: There is implied sexual themes in the middle of this chapter. However, nothing to drastic or graphic, so it should be okay?  
Enjoy

* * *

Stephen Strange had always believed he knew everything there was to know when it came to the human body; knew how they worked, how they hurt, and how to put them back together. Med school at Columbia University had taught him everything that could be taught. Endless nights driven by numerous cups of coffee in his youth ensured that every bit of information pertaining to the human body engrained itself in his head. His ambition to become the best in his field stopped for nothing short of a few spare hours of sleep. Possibly a party or two from time to time.

To suggest that these sleepless nights had been for nothing, that Stephen did not, in fact, know everything there was to know, was absolute blasphemy. The sheer thought of such a concept would have made the young, up-and-coming neurosurgeon scoff.

And then the car accident happened, and Kamar-Taj proved that maybe Doctor Stephen Strange didn't know everything there was to know about the body. Or more specifically, about the metaphysical mind that came with it. Chakras and energy and Stephen's world expanded, despite his stubbornness. Nights were spent researching and stealing books from Wong's beloved library, soaking in every bit of information he could, much like he had done in his younger years when he had been naïve and ignorant.

And after reading all the library had to offer, thereby satisfying his thirst for knowledge, he had been able to lay back, sigh, and reclaim the position of knowing all there was to know about a human being. Now, beyond the mere physical, biological parts of the body.

Of course, Stephen had only been able to keep the title of all-knowing for a short while. He was kicked off this self-proclaimed throne rather violently, only a few short months after settling back into it's security, by none other than Tony Stark.

Yes, Stephen had known of the man's existence prior to showing up at the New York Sanctum. How could one not know the man? He had always been on the front page of magazines like Time and Forbes. There wasn't a single place one could go to in the modern world without seeing Stark's face on every corner. Or, as the main focus had become as of late, the man's "Iron Man" suit, gracing front pages worldwide with hot red and glittering gold.

Back when Stephen had been living comfortably with a generous sum of money to his name, back when Tony Stark had yet to make a trip to Afghanistan, Strange had spotted the shorter man in passing over heads at galas and charity balls. Always smiling, always with a glass of something alcoholic in his right hand. And as the night would go on, he would always slosh his drink down the front of his shirt and stumble off to the men's restroom, the woman of the night following after him only minutes later.

Stephen had never talked to this Tony Stark. He had never been able to stand how the man's smile never reached his eyes, or how he never looked at someone head-on, or how he always seemed to be shielding his eyes with sunglasses, like they would give something away if he didn't. It could have bothered Stephen because he saw himself in the unfeeling smiles the Stark heir sported, but then again, those galas had been so long ago.

This opinion of Tony "puppet-of-a-man" Stark did not change until many years later. Only after alien invasions and shrapnel and aching hands did the future have Stephen meeting Tony, sans galas and charities.

The Tony Stark that Stephen had met while trying to save the universe did not hold an alcoholic beverage in his right hand at all times. He did not spill a drink down his front in order to get a poorly disguised quickie in the public bathroom. Instead, this Tony Stark had held out his hands towards the danger. This Tony Stark had done anything but retreat. He had joked with such a snap and a smirk that left Stephen unsure of whether to appreciate the man's wit or to lecture him for not taking the impending doom of the multiverse more seriously.

Never would he have imagined that Tony would become more than the loud man across the ballroom, that he had happened to have gotten stuck on an alien craft with at one point in time. But of course, if anyone were to change his whole worldview and prove once more that his knowledge on the human body was incomplete, it had to be Tony.

It had all started on a Thursday night in September. A fair few months after the defeat of Thanos and the reversal of the deaths that had occurred. Most of them were still coping with the events that had happened. Some were off reconnecting with family. Others were taking a well earned vacation. And then there were some, like Stephen, who got no time off whatsoever.

Another battle with yet another alien threat had just ended. Large, carnivorous crabs had taken to the streets at nine o'clock that evening, wreaking havoc and hunting down the late night joggers of Central Park. Something that the Sorcerer Supreme, Doctor Strange, wouldn't normally handle. But Stephen had received a frantic call from Tony while he had been attempting to shave with shaking hands, the shorter man rambling about man-eating crabs and not knowing what realm of universe to drop them in. So clean-up duty had been his good deed for the multiverse for the night.

The group of heroes had dragged their feet back to the remodeled Avengers tower, Strange following along like the designated driver making sure his drunk friends made it to the front door.

"I'm really… just, really done with this whole thing," Tony grumbled as the superheroes that had been on-call that night crammed into the elevator headed for the common floor of the tower, "Space crabs? Even the worst Sci-Fi writers wouldn't come up with this shit."

A grunt of agreeance came from Clint Barton, who was nestled against one of the elevator's shiny metallic corners. The archer was cleaning carnivorous crab guts off of his arrows with what seemed to be a permanent frown of annoyance. Peter Parker, once in one of his very many ramblings, had told Stephen this is what the youth called a "resting bitch face." He could distinctly remember Tony's laughter from the kitchen when the teen had then proceeded to inform Stephen that he, sadly, also seemed to have this predicament as well.

"Space crabs aren't as bad as those grey slugs, though," Peter piped up from somewhere behind Stephen's left shoulder, voice slightly muffled behind his suit's mask, "I would take space crabs over slimy giant slugs any day."

"Oh, come on man, you promised you'd never bring up those disgusting things ever again," Sam Wilson groaned, staring up at the elevator's ceiling as if looking to some higher power to erase his memory. The rest of the group's stomachs dropped at the reminder of the snot covered streets said space slugs had left for all of them to clean up. Bucky Barnes could be heard gagging in the corner.

"Slug mucus was in my arm for _weeks_ ," the man mumbled. Clint stopped cleaning his arrows as the elevator finally made it to the common room floor, looking slightly green and no longer able to look at the bloody crab guts on his weapons.

They all stepped out as Friday opened the silver doors, walking into the cozy, warm lit living room. There were comfy couches and chairs, with a coffee table in the middle and a TV to the side. And for as well as Stephen knew Tony, the television was most definitely not as grand scale as the mechanic probably would have liked it to be. He had a sneaking suspicion Pepper Potts was behind that one.

Off of the living room was the kitchen, where Tony's sentient coffee maker resided, as well as where Thor Odinson's stash of precious Poptarts hid. The fridge was always stocked with Caprisun and turkey sandwiches for Peter. Not as if Stephen had been snooping around while waiting for Tony to finish in the workshop one day. No, certainly not.

And for as much as Stephen visited, he still didn't feel like the tower was very homey. Something was simply off about it. It felt staged, like a picturesque room for an Ikea catalogue. As if it were too clean. It was obvious that Tony didn't spend much time on the communal floor. It was much too tidy for the way Stephen knew the man to be.

"Well, as fun as reminiscing about snail snot is, I'm thinking a drink. Anyone care to join me?" Tony looked around the room, gaze settling on Stephen, who had decidedly hung back near the elevator instead of walking into the living room with the rest of them, "Doc? Happy Hour on me?"

Stephen gave the man an unamused quirk of the eyebrow, "Haven't you stopped drinking? Last time I checked, staying sober meant not drinking."

And yes, Tony had been making good progress in avoiding even the littlest of night caps. But the bad nights, when the dark sky and twinkling stars brought memories of "space," always drew him to the call of the bottle. Always tempted him. It tempted all of them to fall into habits best left forgotten.

"And last time I checked, cider was a perfectly non-alcoholic drink. My invitation still stands," and there was hope in the man's eyes, goddamnit.

Of course, Stephen should have been expecting this. He couldn't count all the times Tony had invited him to a drink, seeing as how it happened almost every other night. Sometimes it was a call, most times a text, always asking if he wanted to come over to the tower. And it wasn't as if Tony Stark and Stephen Strange didn't interact enough to warrant the man reaching out. The pair got coffee at least once a week to catch up; a tradition that had started on a chance meeting, that had ended up being a long conversation about nightmares. Stephen had left the coffee shop that morning with a sour feeling in his mouth and weight on his chest from talking about things rather left in the back of his mind. And then Stephen had proceeded to call Tony the next day and ask if they could talk again the next week.

But it wasn't always coffee. At least once a week, Stark brought Peter to the Sanctum, the boy groaning into the pile that was his copious amounts of homework and thanking Stephen when the man caved and helped him study for his anatomy class. And, of course, it wouldn't hurt to include the many times during the week when Tony came rushing into the Sanctum, yet another question about the mystic arts on the tip of his tongue.

Sometimes, Stephen wanted to joke he might as well give Tony the key, because the man obviously thought he lived there. But the fear of Tony taking him seriously and acquiring the ability to poke around at all hours of the night and undoubtedly break something important kept Stephen's lips sealed.

The point was, an invitation to a drink was not needed. He was hesitant to use the word "friends" when it came to him and Tony. The label "a working relationship with therapeutic benefits" suited them well enough. However, "co-workers with an exciting yet forever unresolved sexual tension" had been the label he had given his relationship with Christine up until she had called him her boyfriend at a gala, which Stephen later realized had been their third date, and in fact, they had been dating for two months. So his labels weren't always the most accurate.

But whatever they were, they were certainly beyond the step of getting to know each other over a couple of drinks. And anyway, he had no time with pointless time spent away from the Sanctum.

"I'm afraid I'll have to decline your invitation, Stark. Taking care of the multiverse isn't a job-," Stephen recited, words that Tony already knew by heart now.

"-To be left unattended. Yeah, whatever, Dumbledore," the man dismissed with a wave of his hand, already turning his back on the Sorcerer to head for his room, "Don't forget to take Peter home to his Aunt's place. Happy's on a date with Pepper and can't drive him."

Stephen's gaze fell to the boy on the couch, who seemed close to be vibrating from the excitement.

"Do we get to go through one of your portals again, Mister Doctor?"

Stephen sighed and turned to where Tony's receding form had been, a protest already sharp on his tongue. But Stark was gone, without so much as a goodnight, and Strange was now stuck with the teen wiggling with an abundance of energy on the furniture.

* * *

"Why don't you ever get a drink with Mr. Stark?" Peter asked as the portal closed behind them, the boy's face still flushed from the apparent rush that came with traveling through portals.

Stephen looked down at Peter, curiosity written all over the kid's expression.

"It's just… not my cup of tea. Stark knows this, he just likes to be persistent," Stephen explained, knocking on the apartment door in hopes that Mrs. Parker would relieve him swiftly of her nephew. The confusion only seemed to grow on Peter's face.

"But you love tea! Mr. Stark got at least fifty types of tea, he wasn't sure what kind you liked incase you came over and he spent so much time on it. He called Mr. Barnes about the best relaxing teas, which I told him not to do because those teas can give you diarrhea, but he didn't list-"

"Peter!" May exclaimed happily as she opened the door, and Stephen had never been so happy to see someone as he had in that moment.

Peter's face lit up when the door opened, the story Stark had probably specifically told Peter to _not_ tell forgotten as the teen received a hug from his aunt.

"See you later, Mr. Doctor! Thank you for the portal!" The unrelenting use of the nickname irking Stephen as Peter disappeared behind Mrs. Parker and into their home. May watched him walk towards his room with a loving smile before turning back to the tall man in the red cloak. Her mask completely slipped away to reveal a heart-wrenching worry in her eyes. It was understandable. Taking care of a kid was hard enough without having to worry about the child's alter-ego superhero identity.

"Did everything go alright? No injuries?"

"No, everything went fine. He's a good kid," Stephen reassured. May let out a heavy exhale, as if she had been holding her breath for hours.

"Thank you," she said with a weak smile.

"Of course. Have a good night, Mrs. Parker."

"Sleep well, Stephen," she called out as he started to walk away, closing the apartment door with the click of a lock. His cloak swished against the sides of the hallway as he wondered when May Parker had learned his first name.

The Sanctum was quiet when he stepped out of a portal and into his bedroom. Which wasn't out of the ordinary, Wong wasn't exactly a party animal of a housemate. But tonight, the silence felt foreboding. Even washing his hands of residue dirt from the fight sounded too loud. And if he had any sense, he wouldn't have gone to sleep that night. He would have taken the eerie silence as a sign. He would have stood at the side of the bed and glared at the sheets in anger until the morning sunlight graced the bedroom floor. Because of course, the bed was to blame for what had happened that night.

But Stephen had no sense, nor the ability to look into the future of his own reality, so he happily slipped under the sheets, the cloak floating over to rest on the plush red armchair in the corner. He had no idea what the night was about to have in store for him.

* * *

 _The subtle buzz of the night's red wine was still thrumming through his veins. The dinner had been amazing, as it always was when he went out on a date night with Tony. But there was something in the air tonight, something charged, that left his breathing light and his heart pumping. He felt like he couldn't stop moving, clenching and unclenching the bedsheets as if to repeatedly ground himself and remind his brain that yes, this was happening, and yes, they were both shirtless, and yes, Tony Stark was seated on his lap and his beautiful brown eyes were looking straight into his and-_

" _Earth to boyfriend? I know spacing out is part of your job, but I thought we swore to keep hero business out of the bedroom. Sex is a two-way street babe, I can't have you traveling to alternate realities while boning you," Tony quipped, looking down at the man with a smirk and a glint in his eye. Stephen chuckled, eyes focused on the genius with a flush to his cheeks._

" _I'm-I'm here. You can be so crude sometimes, do you know that?" Stephen watched in delight as an unrepressed shudder went down Tony's spine as he ran trembling hands up the man's sides._

" _Yes I do know that, because you never miss an opportunity to remind me. And may I remind_ you _I only say crude things to get your attention," he retorted before leaning down to press kisses against Stephen's cheekbones. His eyes fluttered closed at the feeling, breath lodging itself thick in his throat as fingertips trailed along his arms and down his ribs. This feeling never ceased to affect him, never ceased to make him feel everything at once._

" _Everything you do is to get my attention," Stephen stated with a smirk as Tony skimmed lightly along the waistband of his crisply ironed pants. Well, previously crisply ironed. They were undoubtedly a mess now._

" _Touché, mi amor. But is it working?" and he had never heard Tony sound so utterly sinful. The man was going to be the death of him. Stephen had always thought this, but in the recent turn of their relationship, he was going to die for very different reasons._

" _Ah- no, I'm completely unaware of our situation. I could not be more unfocused. You'll have to try harder," Stephen countered, and by the smolder in Tony's eyes, it really hadn't been a good idea to say such a thing._

" _As you wish, dear," he mumbled happily against Stephen's jawline before moving his soft lips down the side of the man's neck, nibbling sharply and sucking at the skin before laving over it with the flat of his tongue and definitely leaving a mark that would not be gone any time soon._

" _Tony... Shit," Stephen shouted, an electric feeling zipping down his spine that left him with no choice but to arch into the man above him, gripping his naked hips as hard as he could manage with trembling fingers._

" _Yes, very eloquent," Tony had the gall to tease, and damn the man, Stephen could feel the smirk against his neck, "Have I got your attention now?"_

 _The trail of heat that his mouth was leaving in its wake was distracting as it was, without the warm velvet purr to Tony's every word. Looking back on that moment, Stephen was unsure how he'd been able to answer, knowing full well how wicked his mouth could be._

" _I've never felt more distracted in my life," Stephen managed to gasp, and in a way, he was telling the truth. He was very distracted, "My attention isn't directed towards you in the slightest."_

" _Well, I guess we'll need to change that, won't we?"_

 _And to his horror, and equally, his pleasure, Tony's mouth traveled southward to skim along Stephen's waistband as his fingers had been doing earlier. The wet heat that came with the drag of his tongue along the tip of his hip bone left him breathless, hands leaving hips to grasp sheets as if they were his only lifeline. One of Tony's hands settled at the bottom of Stephen's ribs, grounding the heavily breathing man below him as he nipped at the skin of Stephen's sensitive hips, and his breath caught as wrinkled pants were unzipped-_

Stephen's eyes flew open in the darkness of his bedroom, alone besides the phantom weight of dream-Tony enticingly settled on his thighs. His heart was pounding and, much like in his dream, he was clutching the sheets with the desperate intensity of someone who had felt something so real and good their life had become that one thing. And in this case, that one thing had been Tony Stark.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, releasing the sheets from his tight grip, staring at the ceiling. His skin felt sensitive, his blood thrumming with an energy that no battle-induced adrenaline could match. His labored breathing was deafening in the silent room, but only because there wasn't someone there to share in the silence with him.

The covers had been kicked off in what looked to be a heated struggle, and the sheets were too warm for comfort. The trail of dream-Tony's tongue still felt branded into his skin, a thrilling yet utterly confusing sensation. And Stephen Strange had no idea what to do.

Since when did he think of Tony Stark that way? Since when had his brain focused on the warmth of the man's brown eyes without his permission? He was completely caught off guard, trapped up in the undeniable arousal that came with the dream and the idea of him and Tony in such a way. The sporadic man, who texted at three a.m to invite him over for a drink, the same man he got coffee with every week, the same man he fought alongside. The same man that built a sentient coffee machine that stress-made cold coffee. The same man he spent a considerable amount of time with. Everything would be ruined by this, of course it was. Because there was no way, in any alternative universe, that he would be able to look at anyone after having such a dream like that with them in it.

But then again, it could easily mean nothing. Sometimes, brains did things that were beyond understanding. Dreams were certainly not an exact science by any means. In fact, the dream could easily be analyzed as simply wanting a deeper connection with someone, and Tony just happened to be the projectee. And the teasing banter could easily correlate to the need to have fun in one's life. And the more physical stuff… Obviously, easily analyzable, because being Sorcerer Supreme didn't leave much time for extracurricular activities. And being a little shocked by the dream wasn't unreasonable, anyone would be shocked to have such a dream about a friendly person they worked with. Like Wong, for example-

Stephen shuddered at the thought, immediately throwing that train of thought out of his mind.

But it wasn't completely out of left field… Yes, of course, everything was perfectly analyzable. It all made sense. Everything comes back to the body, after all, and it had only been a simple projection of what his subconscious was mulling over. It was the same concept as when one had a dream about a person they hadn't seen in twenty years. It was only projection, nothing specifically meaningful. Tony… It certainly wasn't like that.

But despite his attempt at convincing himself, the bed was still warm and the phantom weight of the dream still sat across his body as if it had been real.

A quick glance at the clock and Stephen knew he wouldn't be getting back to sleep. He was too awake now, too aware of the buzzing undercurrent in his veins. The restless feeling in his hands, the ever-present aching since the accident, felt even more pronounced in the dark room. The ache felt like a deeper, prolonged sensation, as if the dream had made his hands yearn to tightly grasp and flex and touch and knead and-

Shower. Yes, a good cold shower.

Bare feet hit cool wooden floorboards as the man shuffled into the bathroom, turning on the light placed above the mirror. However, instead of the warm yellow light that used to wash over the bathroom, it was now a bright, blinding, unnatural white. Wong must had changed the clearly functioning old bulb with a new one, a change that was much too harsh on sleep deprived eyes. Stephen quickly switched it off with a hiss of pain, squinting as he fumbled his hand against the wall until he found the switch. He hated it when Wong wouldn't tell him when he changed the lightbulbs, which was most likely why Wong specifically kept doing it. Sometimes, Stephen swore the man got some sick pleasure in creating such little, painful annoyances.

The shower was quick and cold. He made sure to make it so, not wanting to give his brain a single moment to think over the dream. Stephen knew himself well enough to know he was a notorious daydreamer when it came to the shower. The warmth would wash over him and stress would leave his shoulders, and suddenly six minutes had passed. A significant amount of time, spent on letting his mind wandering. Therefore, cold and quick showers were for times when Stephen had things on his mind that were a little too real to deal with; Thanos and Dormammu were frequent offenders.

Not that he had any reason to avoid anything. Again, the image of Tony Stark had simply latched on to arbitrary hopes and desires. Thanos and Dormammu were real issues, but Stark? No, there was nothing to avoid there because, in the reality of it all, it didn't actually mean anything.

But the way his mind kept going back to those almost-tangible moments was concerning him. Stephen couldn't keep himself from almost being magnetized to the image of Tony and himself like that, as if he couldn't get enough of it. As if he wanted more of what his subconscious had imagined. And then his mind started traveling to all the times that Tony had offered a drink and a long night, with promises of staying up talking and catching up and enjoying each other. Stephen couldn't help fantasizing, couldn't help but wonder if there was something more to those so very frequent offers. And then he began to remember the way in which phantom-Tony's arc reactor had glowed in the darkness, how it illuminated everything so beautifully in his dream, and-

Stephen made the abrupt executive decision to quickly end his shower at that moment, washing himself off in a hurried fashion. The cold, stinging water was doing nothing to wash away the memories of the dream, nor the reactions his body was having to it. And he was certainly not going to cave into his physical wishes over a meaningless dream about Tony Stark.

He needed something to distract himself, something to pull him away from the funk that he was in. Only a few things were ever able to pull Stephen away from whatever he was pondering on.

Books. Yes, a good book would successfully distract him from his wandering thoughts.

Drying himself off with a towel, he quickly slipped into a casual set of maroon robes. A comfortable set of clothing, meant for a sorcerer who was taking the day off. Certainly not battle ready, but then, the only battles that had presented themselves as of late where ones with random animal-like creatures, as if Earth were being prank-called with odd aliens by a universal entity. Stephen thought it was safe enough to assume he wouldn't need his battle gear in the current state of things.

As he walked out his bedroom door, hair slightly still wet despite having taken a towel to it, a familiar weight placed itself upon his shoulders. A small grin creeped onto Stephen's lips; this was a sensation that he had grown to find comforting. It was welcoming, a sort of hug one could say. It was about as comfortable as one could imagine having a weighted safety blanket nestled around them would be; which is to say, very comfortable. The occasional swish against his ankles, the soft brush of a collar, the quiet billowing out from behind him; it was soothing. Of course, the cloak's personality and frankly sassy attitude sometimes left much to be desired in the heart-warming department.

Walking down the hall and to the right brought him to the extravagant set of stairs that lead down to the marble entrance of the Sanctum. So many things had happened in this space; only a few months ago did Stephen meet Tony for the first time here. So much had changed, it almost felt like eons ago from that moment.

He stood at the top of the steps, looking down into the entrance hall. If Wong was there, he would berate Strange for acting so oddly. But he couldn't help but stare at the spot he had stood, during a time when he hadn't been through the horrors of Titan and Thanos and the like.

Sometimes, carrying the weight of the universe on his shoulders got mentally troublesome.

He was quickly brought out of his musings by a sudden movement gracing across his cheek. The cloak's collar had stiffened in what Strange had learned to interpret as excitement. It must have realized that their path was to the library, even if slightly detoured by Stephen's seemingly distracted mind.

The sorcerer moved out of his position at the top of the steps, walking down the staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, he took a sharp left towards another hallway, boots echoing in the empty entrance hall. Passing the Sanctum entrance doors, he could hear the honking of outside New York. A welcome noise at times, reminding him that he was not living in an isolated home and was in fact, still very much a part of the world.

The cloak seemed to flutter more energetically as they came closer and closer to the library doors. Stephen could only assume the library was its' favorite room, seeing as how it only got so excited when the library was their destination. It certainly never fluttered so violently when Strange went to the kitchen, or god forbid outside.

He wasn't quite sure what it was about the library that got the Cloak of Levitation so antsy. Maybe it was because it could float along old-smelling books, brushing it's corners along every spine as if attempting to read them all through touch.. Or perhaps it found peace in draping itself on its' favorite squishy chair, settling in to a comfortable position, if sentient clothing could become comfortable. Whatever the reason for its' draw to the library, Stephen would never truly know. Communication between them had only been gestures and such, and those could only go so far most times.

Stephen placed an aching hand against the entrance to the library when they finally arrived. The entrance was beautiful; two doors, ornately carved in patterns and designs that would take a substantial time to study. A dark wood, more than likely made with enchantments and spells to keep people like the late Kaecilius out.

But despite the beautiful vision that was the two wooden doors, it was what the doors were guarding that was truly breathtaking. Opening with a creak, the doors gave way to Stephen, who stepped into the room, pausing in the doorway as the gorgeous room took him once more. There was no number of times walking into the library that would ever have him accustomed to the room.

No pictures could ever do such a library justice. A beautiful, high ornate ceiling that one had to crane their neck to see. Wooden shelves lining every wall, reaching all the way up to where books barely brushed said ceiling. There were spiraling staircases for access to even the highest of shelves, sofas, chairs, and marble floors that made an echoing clack if one was wearing the right shoes for it. It was such a room one simply would not be able to find in suburban New York, unless they were in the Sanctum.

Stephen lazily summoned one of his favorite reads on the theories between anatomy and universal energies, this one in Hebrew, and settled into one of the many couches, the Cloak of Levitation gravitating towards its' favorite large chair across the glass coffee table as it always did.

Turning the pages to the spot he had dogeared from his last session in the library, Stephen let out a long and tiring sigh. The quietness, the soft comfort of the chair, the words on the pages in his hands; he was almost able to forget all about his haunting dream.

Almost.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! Again, super short compared to what I usually write, but I could find not better stopping point. I'd love to hear any feedback you all may have!


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